


Japanifornia Nights

by CaptainAirstripOne



Category: The Sandman (Comics), 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Curses, Memory Loss, Multi, Murder Mystery, Off-screen Relationship(s), Post-Gyakuten Saiban 6 - Spirit of Justice, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8802253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAirstripOne/pseuds/CaptainAirstripOne
Summary: Miles Edgeworth, the most rational man he knows, is forced to navigate The Dreaming.
“I forget my dreams all the time, too, sir,” said Gumshoe. “I wake up, fall outta bed, and poof! They're gone.”
“It's strange,” said Miles. “It's not that I forget them. It just...doesn't happen. I remember I used to dream, when I was young. I remember how it felt.”





	

**Chapter 1: Now I lay me down**

Miles Edgeworth did not dream.

Once, he had told Detective Gumshoe about this, while waiting for the rain to pass off during an investigation.

“I forget my dreams all the time, too, sir,” said Gumshoe. “I wake up, fall outta bed, and poof! They're gone.”

“It's strange,” said Miles. “It's not that I forget them. It just...doesn't happen. I remember I used to dream, when I was young. I remember how it felt.”

“Is that how come you're always watching those kids' fantasy shows, sir? Like, to keep your imagination alive?” Gumshoe asked, in a rare flash of insight.

“That's not how dreams work, Detective,” said Miles. “And I watch the Steel Samurai to keep in touch with the contemporary zeitgeist.”

Gumshoe glanced around nervously, a reliable indicator of when he was harbouring Contradictory Thoughts.

“It's been a few years since that show aired, sir. Dunno which samurai the kids have now. I'm pretty sure they're up to strontium, or something like that.”

“What are you implying?” Miles inquired sharply.

“Nothing, sir,” said Gumshoe. “Forensics boys sure are taking their time today, huh?”

Miles did not discuss the matter with Gumshoe, or anyone else, for a long time after that. Then, a couple of years later, he got lazy.

* * *

 

“If I were a psychiatrist,” said Prosecutor Blackquill, “I'd say it was a reaction to trauma. Trauma caused by loss, for example, of a parent. And what sort of loss might you have suffered as a young boy that would cause sleeping difficulties? I wonder... I wonder.”

Miles lifted his eyes from the case notes and locked them on Blackquill. To his credit, the younger man only rocked back an inch or so.

“I don't appreciate speculation on my personal life, professionally-motivated or otherwise,” said Miles. “Besides, you are a psychiatrist.”

“I'm an analytical psychologist. It's the difference between a farmer and a butcher,” said Blackquill, cheerfully. “I'll let you guess in which metaphorical role I see myself, Edgeworth-dono.”

“Don't do that.”

“...Sir. The DL-6 incident is a matter of public record. Are you sure you've resolved all the psychological issues caused by your father's death? Inability to dream for a while is one thing, but for your entire adult life...”

“Prosecutor Blackquill, I confronted my father's murder a long time ago.”

Miles took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The process of pulling the emotional shrapnel out of those memories had been both long and excruciatingly painful. He felt a migraine brewing.

“I am intimately familiar,” he went on, “with every version of the DL-6 incident that the courtroom could construct, or the human mind conceive. I would think a man with your unique professional history is fully aware of the sharp distinctions which that kind of experience can draw between fantasy and reality.”

Blackquill leaned over the desk, looking closely at Miles, evidently scanning him for another tell.

“Actually,” he said, “I'd say my past shows just how blurred those lines can be, sir. I think you should see a therapist.”

“We've been over this. I'm not going to see your girlfriend.”

“I'm not talking about Cykes-dono. You're showing signs of long-term stress and nervous exhaustion. The next step is psychosis.”

“That's nonsense, Blackquill, and you know it. I read the science journals, too, and every symptom I display could be caused by short-term loss of sleep or non-lethal physical illness.”

“You have catalogued your symptoms, yet you stand immobile. I don't intend to do battle under an _Oyakata_ who refuses to secure his mental flank.”

Miles felt a beatific smile spread over his face as the migraine finally kicked in and his head weighed a million tons.

“I do love our contests, Simon, but I have other powers to command this afternoon. Run the case past Detective Skye, if she's back. The forensic evidence here is a little too circumstantial for my tastes.”

Blackquill pursed his lips and gathered his notes. He stopped to bow as he exited.

“Until next time, Edgeworth-dono. Do consider getting professional help with your nocturnal abnormalities.”

“I will give it serious consideration, Prosecutor Blackquill.”

He didn't.

* * *

 

That night, Miles Edgeworth dreamed.

Mercifully, the migraine passed off after a few hours. Wright was sleeping when he got back to the apartment, and Trucy would be at a rehearsal for the rest of the evening.

Miles prepared a light supper. Having eaten, he poured himself a generous glass of red grape juice and fell to dozing on the couch.

When he next opened his eyes, he was somewhere else.

Miles picked his way down the darkened aisle of the city opera house. People hurried past him to their seats. Everyone, male and female, was wearing judges' robes.

Miles made his way to the front row and took his seat. Mia Fey beckoned him to the last empty chair. She was sitting next to her sister, Maya, and Diego Armando, his face obscured by the visor he had worn while working in the prosecutor's office. All of them had a distinctly slack, glassy look, but Edgeworth didn't have time to think about it, because sitting on his other side was a younger version of himself, also wearing the robes of a judge. Miles thought this younger version was even more handsome than he remembered himself being.

“I have extremely high expectations of this show,” said young Edgeworth. “And if they are not met, I will walk out.”

“That seems harsh,” said Miles. “A show is composed of many parts, and the later portions can add context...”

“You don't understand my rationale,” interrupted young Edgeworth. “Few do. I'm extremely clever, and very influential.”

“Shh!” hissed Mia Fey. “He's coming on.”

The house lights dimmed, and there was a rustle of polite applause as a single spotlight illuminated the grand piano which dominated the stage.

Phoenix Wright, wearing a rumpled evening suit and a white bow tie, walked haltingly up to the piano and took a seat.

The applause rose and Mia Fey nudged Miles.

“He's very good,” she said. “I taught him everything he knows.”

Wright spent around ten minutes cracking his knuckles, wiggling his fingers, and sweating copiously. The audience murmured in approval, except young Edgeworth, who drummed his fingers impatiently.

Clearing his throat with great gusto, Wright began playing a clumsy rendition of Chopsticks. He hit the piano keys fretfully, with no discernible sense of rhythm. The audience listened in rapt silence. Miles was paralysed, unable to tear his eyes away.

After what seemed like an eternity, Wright finished the waltz. The applause was thunderous. The Feys stood, then the entire audience, and Miles found himself on his feet too, clapping until his hands were sore. He looked again at young Edgeworth, and saw him beaming, tears of joy running down his face.

Wright came down into the stalls, and was handed a huge bouquet of roses. He came over to young Edgeworth, a look of shock and awe on his face.

“Edgeworth! I can't believe you made it!”

Wright then looked at Miles, back at young Edgeworth, and recognition dawned.

“Wait a second...” he said.

Miles started to feel dizzy.

* * *

 

Miles' mind was focused by the rich tang of slowly roasting meat. The carpet underneath him was a deep red, though a little matted and sticky. He picked himself up and followed the enticing scent into the most fabulously appointed banquet he had ever seen.

The table was at least thirty feet long, though Miles was certain it grew as he watched it. It was covered with every delectable dish imaginable, from gleaming fish slick with butter to bubbling tureens of soup and curry. Piping hot steamed vegetables were heaped in brightly-painted dishes. An entire pig turned slowly on a spit at the foot of the table. The room was a little too hot for Miles' taste.

Seated on the other side of the mighty feast, staring wolfishly at a bowl of noodles, sat Detective Dick Gumshoe.

“Ah, Detective,” said Miles. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

Gumshoe slowly raised his eyes to Miles, as if unsure he had heard him.

“Oh. Hey there, Mr Edgeworth! Sure, you can. Only... uh... we can't start eating yet.”

Miles' fists clenched. He realised he was completely famished.

“And... why is that, Detective?” he said, struggling to control himself as his eyes roved the bounty before him.

“I'm waiting for somebody. We can't start until they arrive.”

“That's crazy, Detective. The food will get cold. Who are you waiting for, anyway?”

“I... I'm not sure, sir. Only maybe it's not such a great idea to start before everybody gets here.”

Edgeworth lurched toward the table. He felt a strange pressure behind his eyes. It felt _right_ to do this. It was his _duty_. He _had_ to make a scene. He had to devour everything here.

“How do you know it isn't me you're waiting for, Detective? I just arrived. We are work colleagues. I am your superior. It's a reasonable assumption that you would wait for me before starting to eat.”

“Sir, please...” begged Gumshoe.

Miles could hear the desperation creeping in to his voice. Before his eyes, the feast was starting to cool and decay. Dishes of sauce were coagulating. Meat was charring and burning. Vegetables were drooping and rotting away.

“It's too late, Detective! We can't wait any longer!”

Miles grabbed rapidly-solidifying bowl of udon and began to eat. There was a dreadful crash as the table gave way, spilling the feast across the floor in a slurry of putrefaction.

He rapidly spat his mouthful onto the floor. The cloying, ice-cold noodles were sour, bursting in his mouth with a slimy texture he couldn't stomach.

“Oh, no! Mr Edgeworth sir, it's all falling apart!”

The hog roast at the end of the table ignited the table cloth. Miles groped across the floor toward a miraculously unspilled crystal goblet. Carven dragons leaped and entwined on its surface.

Gumshoe was bellowing, trying to smother the flames with his overcoat. As the fire spread despite him, Miles raised the gleaming vessel to his lips. He drained the amber liquid inside and gagged.

The smoke was spreading. Miles could feel it filling his lungs. He had time for one more thing before he lost consciousness. “Detective! These people are serving Coors Light!”

* * *

 

The air was fresh on the clifftop. Miles took in the panorama – a moonlit dale, neatly clustered wooden buildings in the town below, the tiered pagoda roof of the castle above. A stiff breeze rippled through the cherry blossoms. A typical scene from Shogunate-era America.

Miles felt a chill run down his spine. Far off, he could hear the thundering of hooves. He looked back toward the plains beyond the town. Darkness masked the rising cloud of dust, and Miles' night vision was nothing to write home about, but even at this distance he could not mistake the malicious gleam of the moon in his enemy's eye.

The Evil Magistrate and his henchmen were coming. Miles knew they wanted the goblet from Gumshoe's banquet. Somehow, he still had it with him, though the memory of how he got it there was fading fast.

Miles knew he had only moments to find a suitable hiding place in the town. Holding the goblet close to his chest, he leaped from the cliff edge, floated to the valley bottom, and landed in a crouch. After such a graceful descent, he was dismayed to find himself barely able to run. Every step was an awkward hop from one foot to the other. Sweat trickled into his collar. He would not reach the town's outskirts quick enough.

The beat of hooves had all but reached the cliff edge. He heard the whinnying of fractious horses. They were above him now. Miles, still barely able to move forward, hopped into the shadow of an outbuilding. Had they seen him?

He caught another glimpse of the Magistrate. The evil one was rearing his steed and stabbing his sword toward the heavens. His face was death-pale but his eyes were aflame with the light of vengeance.

_I've crossed him_ , thought Miles. _He'll follow me to the ends of the earth. But what did I do?_

Miles awkwardly tried to shield the glittering surface of the glass in the folds of his jacket and stumbled on into the town. There was nobody in the streets. No lights filled the windows. The local tea-houses stood empty. The sheriff's office was deserted. _No help anywhere._

Miles blundered into a walled garden and ran for the shrubbery. The Magistrates' minions advanced from every side-street, hands on swords, their menace only enhanced by the rigid, stamped aggression of their Noh masks.

Miles crouched down as low as he could and scrabbled at the sand beneath him. _If they take me, they won't take the glass. It is needed, I know it is._

Lining up like a black wall by the garden's outer gate, the underlings advanced on Edgeworth. They drew swords together in a practised motion, without breaking stride. Miles wanted to stand and resist, but his legs were jelly.

_I'm dead._

Then his heart almost exploded.

To the hammering of taiko drums, a figure with skin of shining silver and hakama of blazing crimson crashed through the foliage above and took up a determined fighting stance between Miles and his assailants.

“In the name of great justice, stand where you are!” roared the silver figure, its voice much higher than Miles remembered, yet eerily familiar.

The wall of underlings halted, a tremor of uncertainty passing through their ranks. Poised swords quivered and broke formation as each masked man took a defensive posture.

Twirling his (her?) spear with defiant confidence, the Steel Samurai cast a glance back toward Miles.

“I'll take care of these miscreants, Prosecutor Edgeworth. When I move, you run straight over the bridge and don't stop.”

“Uh... yes... by all means. Sir,” Miles added belatedly. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me now,” said the Steel Samurai, “But you're buying the burgers next time.”

Miles was unclear how to respond to that.

“I have to be careful of the goblet,” he said.

“Hang on to it,” said the Steel Samurai. “You were right.”

“About what?” asked Miles. And then, he started running.

The Steel Samurai was on the Magistrate's agents with blinding speed. Two of them were knocked straight into the lake at a stroke of the Samurai Spear. Another spun in mid-air three times after a kick to the head. The masked villains tried to rally and rush the gleaming warrior, but were scattered by another charge and pursued into the brush.

Miles ran for his life. Ignoring the swinging swords around him, he clattered over the bridge and down the winding path beyond. This part of town was even darker than before, but Miles pounded on as ordered. He took no trouble to conceal the glass now, it shone clearly in his hand as he fled, arms swinging with abandon.

The Evil Magistrate barrelled toward him out of the blackness. It was too late to slow down or turn aside. Miles screamed as the red-eyed murderer raised his sword for a mortal blow.

A third party spoke from the shadows.

“Hah! I knew you'd show yourself sooner or later!”

Miles, wild-eyed, caught a glimpse of a baseball bat whirling out of the black. The Magistrate was struck full in the face and crashed to the ground. Miles tripped over him and went sprawling. By a feat of muscle control that he was, frankly, getting a little old for, he avoided crushing the crystal goblet.

There was the sound of steel on steel in the distance as Miles coughed up his terror and the dust of the town's streets.

“Oh, hell,” he said. “I think I've slipped a disc. So this is what Wright's always grousing about.”

“Oh, don't worry about him,” said Mia Fey, her baseball bat now safely resting on her shoulder. “He was always a drama queen.”

Miles gaped at her, nonplussed.

“Ms. Fey. You haven't aged a day.”

“There's a reason for that,” said Fey.

“Well, of course. You're dead.”

“That's true,” said Fey. “Not quite the whole story, but I'll get into it later. We don't have much time. my sister can hold back the Magistrate's troops as long as she likes, but we might be discovered in the chaos anyway. You have the glass?”

Her professional tone calmed Miles, who felt himself slipping comfortably back into work mode.

“I do,” he said. “I can't say I've had a chance to fully examine it, though.”

“I'm just impressed you managed to find it,” said Fey, slipping the glass into a grip-sealed evidence bag. “I hate to say it, Edgeworth, but I need you tonight. Are you up for some consulting work?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Miles. “My subconscious is overcompensating for years of dreamless sleep. I can't tell you what I will be dreaming of next, and as a hallucination, you are in no position to offer me a legally sound contract of employment.”

“I'm not a hallucination, Edgeworth,” said Fey, “and this isn't your dream. You're a kind of unique clerical error just now, and you have the professional talents to make use of that. I need you to help me on a case.”

“Hmm. Well, it stands to reason I would start dreaming shop sooner or later. What's the case?

“Well,” said Fey, “You've worked on this one before. I'm not surprised you don't remember. You see, a long time ago, you changed the course of the universe, and made a very important man very angry indeed...”


End file.
